


Confession

by writer_zo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, at least, mirror of my coming out story tbh, very self indulgent, when i came out to my friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 16:14:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19232590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writer_zo/pseuds/writer_zo
Summary: William Shakespeare admits something to Aziraphale. Aziraphale admits something to him in return--and to himself.





	Confession

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while exhausted and on painkillers, and it's super self-indulgent. Read if you like.

“Do you believe,” the bard asked, as ink dribbled from the fallen well, “that someone can be in love with two people at once?”

Aziraphale didn’t quite know how to respond.

It was the winter of 1595, and the pane-glass window did little to hold the warm air of his quarters. Candlelight cast webs of shadows around the room, grasping things that crawled into the corners and bred endlessly.

He might have known how to respond, had he not been in front of Will at this very moment. That yes, it was, but not for an angel. Not for Aziraphale. Will, however, was  _ not _ Aziraphale. The poet always seemed to have something strange and dark and tangled behind his eyes, an earthen brown the color of a river-stone in sunlight. He was full of life, and desire for something, and once, long ago, he’d told Aziraphale that he had been given his power over language by an immortal wiseman with pale skin and glowing eyes. So he might have been a little insane, along with all the beauty.

William was also, as most men his age were, married. 

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale said, laughing to hide his discomfort. “Surely you’re thinking of one of the characters in your play?”

“Some play,” the bard remarked, bitter. “I’ve written some shoddy love stories, but this one has to top them all. There’s no conflict.”

“Well, I like the line about the girl being the sun. The softness and whatnot.” Aziraphale said. He hated to see Will so distraught. “I was just wondering if this…”

“No,” the poet said. “It’s not a character. It’s me.”

He turned away to set his pen down, and Aziraphale miracled the ink into a more manageable spill size. 

“William, perhaps you just need more time with your wife.”

“I send her money, and she is content with that. She has her share of lovers.” He said. Aziraphale’s mouth fell open.

“You… you  _ know _ of these.”

“I found love letters to a certain F. Dover in her room,” Will said, smiling mirthlessly. “Barely hidden.”

The wind outside was the only sound. Aziraphale reached out to him, then thought better of it. The man didn’t  _ seem _ to be in need of comfort. He seemed taut--tense as a drawn bow--with something closer to apprehension.

“She never loved me, you know.” The poet continued.

“Are you sure? Then why--if I may ask--did you marry her?”

“We… it isn’t important.” The poet said. “I’m sorry. I never meant to bring this up.”

“William, I promise not to judge you for anything you do or have done,” Aziraphale said, tracing the line in between his friend’s brows with his eyes. “You-- _ we _ are only human, after all.”

His friend gave him a look of doubt that would have stung had he not been so concerned, then sighed, a deep, long sigh, a breath held for nearly a lifetime.

“I had sex with her,” William said, gazing out the window, imagining a naive boy and the much older girl who’d told him how handsome and strong he was until his mind turned to mush. “I made her pregnant. Our marriage couldn’t have been more forced if it were at swordpoint.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said. Will waved him off, eyes down. 

“It’s in the past. She is a good woman. She did not want this.”

“But you still love her? As well as another woman?” Aziraphale asked, searching his eyes for an answer.

William gave him a blank stare, one that betrayed nothing at all, then threw his head back and cackled. His eyes were squeezed shut with mirth, hands pushing his hair back from his face, and the inkwell finally tumbled all the way off the table as it shook.

“What? What is it?” The angel asked.

“I can’t believe this,” Will said, folding his arms. “Mr.  _ Fell _ , I was  _ forced _ into a marriage with a woman I decided to have sex with while confused and young, and I now live in a small apartment in the city and write and perform exclusively with other handsome men. You are as off the money as you could possibly be.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale said, confused, until his eyes suddenly widened. “Oh!”

“Yes.” William smiled, but his eyes were nervous. Searching Aziraphale’s. Desperate.

“Well…” Aziraphale said, hesitantly. “I may… I may be…”

“Please,” said the bard, “please just accept that I am no fool, that I know I could never do an--”

“William, please! I’m… well, I’ve often wondered if I’m the same way.” Aziraphale blinked, at hearing the words come out of his mouth. 

He was supposed to be an angel--against things of the flesh--but there were a few thoughts in his head that he hoped to ignore, hoped to stuff down until they vanished. And anyway, William could use the words of encouragement--it wasn’t, in the end, a sin to comfort him, was it? Will’s wife was already bound to another, so it wasn’t… well, it was all very mushy and human.

Will looked at him, eyes practically  _ glowing _ in the light of a candle, and threw his arms around Aziraphale’s neck.

The angel wasn’t sure what to do. He was frozen--the embrace was something strong, something born from years of silence. Desperation. Awkwardly, stiffly, he returned the embrace. Was this how humans felt, all the time? This warm?

“Thank  _ God _ !” Will laughed, a heavy laugh of pure relief. “You don’t know how many--it’s hard, Zira. It’s so lonely.”

“I--yes. It is.” Aziraphale said, dazed. He had admitted it. Out loud. He liked men, felt  _ drawn _ to them in a way he could never be for women.*

“I’m in love with… someone in my company.” William said, pushing himself away to pace around the room. “You know the W.H. I wrote a sonnet for?”

“Yes?”

“Will Hughes,” the bard said, throwing his hands in the air. “Handsome man, and he knows it. An Adonis of the stage.”

“Do you think,” Aziraphale began, trying to tread lightly, “that you and he could… ever  _ be _ together?”

“I have no idea,” William said, “and he’s not the only one I’m… well, I suppose he’s the only one I’d be willing to pursue.” 

His eyes cut to Aziraphale for only a moment, then dropped, strangely hollow. Aziraphale rubbed his shoulder in a way that he hoped was a comfort.

“Well, I’m glad that… we’re both…” Aziraphale swallowed. “I can’t believe I said it.”

“Is there someone you love?” Will asked, wistful. “Someone you care for?”

“Oh. Oh!” Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. A face appeared in his mind’s eye--a red-headed man with a sharp smile and a sharper tongue--and stayed with him like a phantom.

“I don’t really… well…” Aziraphale didn’t want to make Will feel left  _ out _ of course, so he might as well come up with something. “There is a man I care for.”

“Wonderful!” Will said, moving to sit on his table. “That’s… that’s wonderful. What is his name?”

“Cro--erm--he’s--”

“Romeo?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale said, quickly. “Yes, erm, Romeo. He’s… got very interesting… eyes.”

“And they say I’m the eloquent one,” Will teased. “Are you thinking of doing anything about it?”

“Well…” the angel said, wondering what had brought them to this topic. “No. I’m afraid it isn’t that simple.”

“Ah.” Will nodded, and Aziraphale thought that the conversation was turning away from what he’d unintentionally chosen until Will steepled his fingers, leaning toward him.

“So what’s complicating it?” The bard asked, “If that isn’t…”

“No!” Aziraphale held up a hand. What was he doing? He couldn’t just  _ tell _ Will that he’d had thoughts about the enemy. He couldn’t tell Will that Crowley was a PART of the enemy, or that Aziraphale was a part of the Heavenly Host and whatnot. “No, we’re, erm…  _ Romeo _ and I are from rival houses.”

“Rival  _ houses _ ?” Will asked. “So your families…”

“They feud! Yes! Fights in the city square and whatnot.” Aziraphale was relieved by how easily the lie was coming to him, at the same time that he didn’t  _ like _ to lie.

“Fascinating.” Will said. “Absolutely… do you mind if I write this out?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” the bard said, leaning down to pick up the inkwell. “I need conflict in my latest…”

Aziraphale blinked. Once. Twice. Realized what his friend was saying.

“You want to… write a love story.” Aziraphale said it quietly, wondering if his hearing was deceiving him. If he’d truly admitted, out loud, that he had affection for… ‘Romeo?’ “You want to write a love story about  _ me _ ?”

“It would have to be a man and a woman.” Will said, deep in thought. “But… yes. It would be about you and the person you love.”

Aziraphale thought. Well, thought was too strong a word for it. He stared dizzily into nothing, imagining nothing but a tousle of red hair and eyes like twin golden stones.

“...that… would be… alright.” Aziraphale said. 

And he decided--then and there--that he would just happen to invite Crowley along.

 

*It later occurred to Aziraphale that the poet Sappho, whom he had met during a brief sojourn to the islands of Greece, had looked at him as though she’d confirmed something to herself when he answered “No, most certainly not,” to the question of whether he was wed.


End file.
